The Raven's Honor

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “You understand that you will die, Mister Houston?”

  Houston shook his head. “You don’t know me at all, do you, Major?”

  Suddenly, life reappeared in the surgeon’s eyes, and his face warmed.

  “I might enjoy getting to know you, Lieutenant Houston.” He snapped the black satchel shut, picked it up, and moved toward the next patient.

  “Major?” Houston said.

  Major Player turned. Bile again crawled up Houston’s throat, but this came from a terrible stench. “What stinks so much?” Houston asked.

  The surgeon’s face again hardened. “The damned Red Sticks refused to surrender, so General Jackson ordered the redoubt torched. They are burning alive, Lieutenant.”

  Color drained from Houston’s face, and now he fumbled to open the flask. “Dear … God,” he whispered hoarsely.

  Player shook his head. “You forget, Mister Houston, what those bloodthirsty devils did at Fort Mims.”

  The whiskey burned his throat, dulled some of the pain, but could not lessen the foulness of burning flesh embedded in his nostrils, his hair, his clothes, the sheet, the very air itself.

  “But …” He coughed, took another pull from the flask. “The Red Sticks are the savages. We are supposed to be …” He could not finish.

  “In war, Lieutenant,” the major said as he walked away, “all are savages.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  March 15, 1862

  “You comfortable, Master Sam?”

  Houston’s eyes opened, and he gave Jeff a warm nod as the slave worked the sail of the skiff.

  “Jeff,” he said, “if they had let me travel this way, after the slaughter at Horseshoe Bend, I might have no need of this cane.”

  His head sank back against the pillow, and he let the motion of the boat, the rocking of the water, and the warm sun on his face soothe his joints. The groin and shoulder had leaked again that morning, but Jeff had bathed and wrapped the wounds, and he began thinking again of Horseshoe Bend.

  In war, Lieutenant, Dr. Carroll Player’s words rang in his ears, all are savages.

  Indeed. Some eight hundred Creek Indians had been killed at Horseshoe Bend. Since that awful spring day, Houston had traveled across Alabama many times, visiting Mrs. Lea, courting Margaret, or making his way to Nashville or Washington City. Never, however, had he returned to that turn in the Tallapoosa River.

  War turned men into savages. He had seen that when he was but twenty-one. Years later, he had watched his own men butcher Mexican soldiers trying to surrender at San Jacinto.

  And now, across the bays called Trinity and Galveston, his oldest son prepared for war. No one could truly prepare for such madness.

  Yet he also wondered what would have become of Sam Houston had he not enlisted in the army and followed Old Hickory into battle. Would he be back in Maryville, charging eight dollars to educate a bunch of children whose parents lamented the fact that their kids were being taught by a wild man who wore a hunting shirt made of flowered calico and wore a long queue in Cherokee fashion that hung down his back? Would he still need the leaden knuckles to make some of those boys pay attention in class?

  * * * * *

  The Creeks, eventually, had signed the treaty, and Andrew Jackson saw his star rise and rise and never set. Horseshoe Bend had made him famous. New Orleans had made him legend and would send him to the presidency, where President Jackson never forgot his friends, or forgave his enemies.

  Houston had survived the agonizing trips on litters. He had survived doctors in Knoxville, New Orleans, and New York City. He had been promoted and promoted and by the fall of 1817 he had found a job that suited him: subagent for the Hiwassee Cherokees. He had kept the Cherokees out of a war with the United States, an act he sometimes regretted but one he understood that he had to do. That had brought him to Washington City, where he had met with President James Monroe and made a bitter enemy in John C. Calhoun, the South Carolina fire-breather then serving as Secretary of War. Which had given Houston his first taste of politics. He savored that flavor.

  From there, he had moved into law, reading in Judge James Trimble’s office in Nashville. He had hung a shingle in Lebanon, just east of Nashville. Within ten months, he found himself serving as adjutant general of Tennessee. Everything came like a whirlwind: attorney general of the Nashville district in 1819 … major general of the state militia in 1821 … elected to the US House of Representatives in 1823 and again in 1826 … governor of Tennessee in 1827, one year before Old Hickory became President of the United States of America.

  * * * * *

  “You promise me, Master Sam,” Jeff said, “that you ain’t gonna join up to fi’t the Yankees like Young Master Sam up and done?”

  Houston smiled. “They won’t have me, Jeff,” he said.

  “So why you have me get you all duded up in that ol’ uniform of yours, sir?”

  “I want to show those young whippersnappers what a real soldier looks like,” Houston said as he tugged at the jacket, almost too small to fit him anymore.

  Jeff cackled.

  A pelican glided over the boat and skidded to a stop in the calm bay.

  Houston wore the uniform he had donned at San Jacinto: pants the color of snuff—and likely stained with snuff, not to mention whiskey—tucked inside worn, black boots; the jacket frayed at the collar and cuffs and missing a couple of buttons; the old planter’s hat, practically battered into oblivion, with the left side pinned up. His belt lay on the bench, the scabbard and sword’s hilt reflecting the sunlight.

  “I reckon they’ll ask you to give a speech,” Jeff said. “Don’t you reckon, Master Sam?”

  “They usually do.” The city of Galveston drew ever so closer.

  * * * * *

  Frank Lubbock, Texas’ newly elected governor, rambled on about this and that to the good citizens on the street front. Houston listened for a few minutes before stepping inside the post office to collect his mail: newspapers mostly, two magazines, a letter to Margaret from her mother, and one to him mailed from Tennessee. He did not know if he wanted to learn of any news from Tennessee, so he stuffed that letter inside his pocket next to the crumpled envelope of a letter Ashbel Smith had sent him. The rest he gave to Jeff as they walked outside.

  “Let’s go,” he said, but Frank Lubbock called out his name.

  “I’ve told you what I think, folks,” Lubbock told the crowd. “And my plans for Texas, and for the South. Now let’s hear from a true patriot, a bonafide hero. General Sam Houston. Get up here!”

  At first, he frowned, but then he heard the cheers and applause—sounds he had not heard in months.

  “Go on, Master Sam,” Jeff whispered, and Houston stepped onto the street. The crowd parted, and Houston moved forward, feeling their stares, hearing a few whispers. Frank Lubbock’s weak hand helped pull him into the back of the wagon.

  Although Lubbock had served under Houston as comptroller during the republic years, Houston would not call him a friend. A die-hard Democrat, Lubbock had defeated Houston’s run for governor back in 1857, only to see Houston win two years later. Lubbock seemed to be better at running that store he owned in Houston City than in politicking. After all, he had barely defeated Edward Clark for governor, and a dead pack rat would have defeated Clark in a landslide.

  Lubbock grinned, and pointed at Houston.

  “By thunder, this is indeed General Houston, folks! And he’s dressed for battle!”

  His face flushed. Lubbock had played him for a fool, but now the new governor yelled, “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah for Sam Houston! Remember the Alamo. Remember Goliad. Remember Sam Houston!”

  The crowd took up the cheer, and Houston’s anger was replaced with tears in his eyes, which he quickly blinked away. He held out his hands in a feeble attempt to silence the throng. Eventually, the din died just enough so that he
could be heard.

  “We have had our differences,” he said, “but this is not the first time people have disagreed with Sam Houston. Ask Governor Frank, here. Governor Frank has called Sam Houston a fool, and Governor Frank was right.” He enjoyed the laughter, and tried to think of the last time anyone had laughed during one of his stump speeches. “Old Sam Jacinto, on the other hand, has called Governor Frank worse, and I, God, and all of Texas … even Governor Frank himself … know well that Sam Houston was absolutely right.”

  They roared.

  “Yet now we are at war.” Smiles vanished from the faces in the crowd. “It is time to set differences aside. We are in this together, as friends, as neighbors, as Texans. Thank you.”

  They cheered, and he shook hands with Governor Lubbock, made his way off the buckboard, and back through the crowd. Once he reached Jeff, he hailed a carriage to take them to Houston City and on to the flatlands outside of the city that had been rechristened as Camp Bee.

  * * * * *

  The soldiers stood at attention as Houston shook hands with Ashbel Smith and Colonel John Moore. No longer just Smith’s Bayland Guards, these boys had become the Second Texas Infantry.

  “Would General Houston care to drill the regiment?” Moore asked as he unsheathed his saber.

  I guess my sword is too old, too dull, Houston thought, but he felt the excitement swelling inside him, and gladly he took the offered saber, stepped off the stand, and walked to the men. His eyes scanned the faces, stopping ever so briefly on Sam Junior.

  He straightened. “Shoulder arms,” he commanded. “About face.”

  They snapped as one. He thought, By thunder, the men I led at San Jacinto never could have done that.

  “Do you see anything of Judge Campbell or Williamson S. Oldham here?”

  “No!” they snapped.

  Damned right. Campbell and Oldham were a couple of blowhards who would turn tail at the sight of a musket aimed in their direction—even if Oldham had helped get Sam Junior a commission as a lieutenant. An offer that made Houston’s heart sink, but he refused to show any emotion now. Just fatherly pride.

  “Well, they are not found at the front, or even at the rear. Right about, front face! Eyes right!”

  Again, they moved in unison.

  “Do you see anything of Judge Campbell’s son here?”

  “No!” they shouted as one.

  Then one sang out, “He has gone to Paris to school!”

  Houston grinned. Campbell and Oldham were nothing but talk. They bragged. They preached. They let others fight, and die.

  “Eyes left! Do you see anything of young Sam Houston here?”

  “Yes!”

  He felt something in his throat, and wondered if he would be able to finish. He coughed. “Eyes front!” He drew in a breath. “Do you see anything of old Sam Houston here?”

  They cheered. He beamed. And he could let this go now, let them feel the glory, the pride, but he had more to say.

  “Gentlemen of the Second Texas Infantry, I am Sam Houston.” He would not speak of himself in the third person. Not this time. These brave boys deserved better. They also needed to know the truth. “I made Texas, and you know it. You have prospered most when you have listened to my counsels, but now you have listened to others. You march into battle, and you desire glory. But, hear me and hear me well, there is no glory to be found in war, and I fear that you will sink in fire and rivers of blood.”

  He saluted, and returned to Ashbel Smith and Colonel Moore, handing the saber to the latter.

  “Where are you staying tonight, General?” Colonel Moore said.

  “The Fannin House,” Houston replied.

  “Very well.” Moore looked around. “I fear your hack has abandoned you. Captain Smith.”

  “Yes, Colonel,” Ashbel Smith said.

  “Find a suitable soldier and have him escort General Houston and his slave to the Fannin House.”

  “Very good, sir.” The doctor stepped toward the soldiers who remained at attention. “Private … Houston.”

  Sam Houston grinned.

  * * * * *

  When they reached the hotel on the corner of Fannin Street and Congress Avenue, Houston and his son sat in the army ambulance in silence as Jeff gathered the grip.

  “Doctor Smith wrote me about your decision to turn down the lieutenancy,” Houston told his son.

  “Yes, sir. Captain Smith told me he was doing that.”

  He nodded. “When do you move out?”

  “In two days.”

  Had his son accepted the commission, he would have remained in Texas. And now?

  “Are you permitted to tell an old general where you are bound?”

  His son shrugged. “We know we take the train to Beaumont, then a steamboat north. Alexandria is what most of us guess.”

  Louisiana then, Houston thought. But not forever. Two forts in Tennessee, Donelson and Henry, had fallen last month. The Union Army kept moving south. The Second Texas, in all likelihood, would join a major army to meet the challenge.

  “Your mother asked me to tell you that she received your letter,” Houston said. “And the drawing you included.”

  “Tell Mother that I shall continue to write.”

  His heart pained him. “And draw,” he said. “I hope.”

  “I shall gladly send my sketches to her,” Sam Junior said. “And you.”

  His head bobbed once more. It seemed that was all he could do. Just nod his big, fat head.

  “You do have a gift.” Houston wondered why he had always found drawing such a waste.

  “Thank you, Father.”

  Jeff had returned from leaving the luggage with the hotel desk clerk. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but stopped, and stepped away, waiting patiently.

  “Ashbel is to meet me here for supper,” Houston said. “It would honor me, and your captain, were you to join us.”

  “Thank you, sir, but …” His son smiled, and Houston knew his son was full grown, his own man, and had been for a long time. “But … well … we have been invited to Perkins Hall for a dance and feast. They haven’t finished the playhouse yet, but … well, Perkins Hall as it is will do for the boys of the Second. I …” he held out his hand, “I should be going, Father. It was wonderful to see you.” After they shook, his son’s fingers traced along the lapel of his old coat. “The boys will be talking of your speech, and your uniform, all the way to wherever we are going.”

  Somehow, Houston managed to laugh. “I suppose they will.” As his son climbed out of the wagon, he held out his hands. Now Jeff came forward, and the two of them helped Houston onto the boardwalk. Houston handed his cane to the slave, and reached into an inside pocket.

  “Your mother sent a present for you,” he said, and held out the pocket Bible to his son. “I believe she has inscribed a sentiment.”

  Sam Junior opened the Bible, smiled, and closed it.

  “Send her all my blessings, and my love, and tell her I shall carry it with me till I return home.”

  “You do that, Private Houston.” He snapped a salute, and watched his son perfect the return. Then, Sam Houston Junior climbed back into the driver’s box, released the brake, and urged the mules into a walk.

  Houston just stood there, with Jeff at his side, watching the ambulance disappear in the darkness.

  “You do that, Sam,” he said in a choking voice. “Return home.”

  * * * * *

  Sautéed shrimp, stewed onions, buttermilk biscuits, and Texas beef. Dr. Smith sipped red wine. Houston drank black coffee.

  “Do you know where you’re bound?” Houston asked after the waitress removed their empty plates.

  “Corinth,” Smith whispered.

  In northern Mississippi. Houston frowned.

  “We’ll be under General J
ohnston’s command, Sam,” the old doctor assured him. “You know Albert. There is no better leader of men, other than the strapping young man sitting across from me.”

  Houston ignored the compliment. “Albert’s a fine gentleman but no general, nothing but a mechanical soldier.”

  “Well.” Smith frowned. “Not everyone can be Old Sam Jacinto.”

  He had hurt the doctor’s feelings, had insulted an officer of the Confederate army. Houston did not apologize, but changed the subject. He pulled both envelopes from his pocket, finding the one that had contained the short note from Ashbel Smith, the one saying that Sam Junior had rejected a promotion, and that the Second Texas would be leaving Texas. He fumbled with the envelope before passing it on.

  “Do not take this as a bribe,” Houston said. “Money. For Sam, if you determine he needs it. And … you. Remember those early years in the Republic? Mostly, this is state script, but some old Union notes as well. And a couple of gold coins.”

  “Sam,” Smith said, “you need not …”

  “No.” Houston held up his big hand, and Smith, conceding defeat, slipped the envelope into his inside coat pocket.

  “You should hold on to your cash, Sam,” Smith said. “Inflation and all. By thunder, do you know what coffee costs these days?”

  Pushing close to four dollars a pound, and rising practically every day. Houston had to keep making his slaves chop cordwood for money. He smiled at Smith and sipped his coffee. “Then I had best drink while I can afford it.”

  Smith laughed with him, but it was not funny. Houston stared at his old friend, remembering that Smith and others had laughed at Houston’s suggestion that the Union blockade would devastate the Texas economy. Now he had been proved correct.

  “Have you seen the South Carolina?” Smith asked.

  The US Naval ship had arrived back in July. From what Houston had learned, the screw-propelled steamer had already captured a few blockade runners. Other ships had since arrived. The blockade became a python. The stranglehold was just beginning.

  “No,” Houston answered.